


Science, Scars, and Steam

by punkrockgaia



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, carlos' pov, post-episode 43
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been spending a great deal of time in the bath, which means that <i>I've</i> been spending a great deal of time in the bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Science, Scars, and Steam

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Pat (antisepticbandaid.tumblr.com) for letting me use eirs line in this fic!

To be frank, Cecil's apartment is kind of skeevy (although approximately 3.762 standard units of skeeviness less so than his previous apartment, which lacked amenities). The floors are worn, the ceilings have weird brown water stains on them, Cecil's housekeeping is at best indifferent, the kitchen is tiny, and the appliances are, frankly, deadly. The one good thing about the place is that it has one of those huge, cast-iron claw-foot bathtubs. It's big enough for two.

We're soaking in it right now, though we should be sleeping. Steam is rising from the water and Khoshekh is sleeping on a towel in the corner. He can't float any more, but he still has an affinity for the bathroom, it seems. Fascinating. It's too bad I don't study cats, or animals of any sort. I'm a scientist.

Cecil's been spending a lot of time in the tub, lately. Ever since that... thing bit him, he's been feeling under the weather -- aching, swollen joints, sudden chills, night sweats -- and the hot water is one of the few things that makes him feel better, that and the ridiculous pile of blankets and pillows he's placed on the bed, for some reason. But it's mostly the tub. I did some research, and I read that certain infectious disease experts believe that Lyme Disease can lie dormant in the body long after the acute infection has passed, flaring up in times of physical or emotional stress. That's the explanation we're going with, but sometimes late at night I start to think about things like sporulating super-bacteria or slow-acting poisons, delivered on the realistic fangs of a biomechanical life form. Then I push those thoughts away. This is real life, not some sort of high-tech spy novel. Of course, this is Night Vale. I don't want to worry Cecil, so... The cat is smaller, and would have absorbed more of the StrexPet's venom in the attack, so by my calculations it would suffer any ill effects sooner and more severely. Therefore, I monitor the cat. Cecil's been quite appreciative of all the time I've spent caring for Khoshekh, and I don't have the heart to tell him that I have ulterior motives. 

Anyway, he's been spending a great deal of time in the bath, which means _I've_ been spending a great deal of time in the bath. I can be kind of consumed with my job, just as he can, and we don't always make enough time for each other, but pass up a chance to be together like this? It's well-worth the lost sleep and the macerated fingers and toes. He has the warmest heart of anyone I know, the most fascinating mind imaginable, and my favorite body in the whole wide world, a body currently nestled between my thighs in the confines of the bathtub walls.

He doesn't understand why his body is my favorite, but it's easy for me to list off some reasons. 

The body, itself, is on the tall side. A bit taller than my own. By "a bit," I mean several inches. So many several inches that his feet are resting on the far end of the tub and his long calves and thighs are hinging at the knees and hanging over the sides. But somehow he fits perfectly against me. 

I love his skin. It's got the most amazing golden glow to it, and as I press kisses to the back of his shoulder it tastes sweet and spicy and salty all at once, like cayenne kettle corn. He certainly has more scar tissue than the average American man of his age and social class that doesn't go in for bear-baiting as a hobby, but as I look at him I feel like I could read his history in those marks, if only I could learn the language.

His fingertips are tapered and sensitive, and pitted with pinpricks from where he's pierced the flesh to anoint his personal bloodstone circle and odd little smooth spots from Boy Scout fire-building and explosives mishaps. His palms are hemisected with innocuous pink lines, but I remember when they were bloody gashes spiked with shards of broken cassette tape. The insides of his forearms are soft and silvered with long-healed nicks that once bled to allow him to enter and exit the radio station. There are newer marks, too, from this workweek. They'll heal and join the others, soon.

He's not fat or thin, but he tends toward the ectomorphic, not a wet-dream body builder by any means. But, drawing my fingertips over the backs of his fingers, then the backs of his hands, then forearms, then biceps, then shoulders, I'm met with ropy muscle. He's what I've heard described as "wiry." He's strong, stronger than you might think if you were to see him on the street. He's that springy kind of muscle that reacts. I love that springy kind of muscle, and I love how it reacts. He sighs and settles as my fingertips brush over his tattoos, the swirling tentacles and eyes that I like to think keep him warm and safe when I'm not around.

I love his hair. It's fine and soft and it smells incredible as I bury my nose in it and breathe deeply. I love his eyes, though I have to admit that one took me a while. Honestly, at first I was both terrified and intrigued by them, assuming that their nonstandard number and lack of any distinguishable ocular structures were the result of either disease or mutation. Now I just accept them as part of my Cecil, though I wouldn't mind doing an MRI of his brain sometime, to see how everything hooks together... But no, he's my boyfriend and not an experimental subject, even if he does enjoy playing one sometimes. There's a scar there, too, one that he never gets tired of talking about. It starts at his temple and runs dangerously close to the corner of his third eye. That one's a souvenir of a roll down a hill in a distant country, one I've never heard of. Then again, geography's never been my best subject.

I love his cheekbones, high and elegant, and his pointy nose. I love his mouth, and his overbite, and the chip on his right canine that he apparently got showing off for Earl Harlan, trying to open a beer bottle with his teeth. I wonder if Earl was impressed. He probably was.

I love his neck, which is long and slender and biteable. I **don't** love the twisted, raised line that cleaves across it like the memory of a noose. I asked Cecil about it, once. He smiled brightly, blinked twice, then slammed his fingers in the door, the smile never faltering, then sat down and continued the conversation as if I hadn't spoken. I don't ask him about it any more. 

I love his chest and its smattering of white-blond hair, soft and fine like the hair on his head. I love the way that hair thickens and condenses as it travels down his abdomen and the slight softening of his belly. I love...

Cecil's bending forward now, blocking my visual catalog of his best features just when I was getting to one of my favorite areas of study. He's pulling the plug on the tub, and at first I think he's had enough soaking, but then he replaces it and turns on the hot tap. The already blood-temperature water becomes almost scaldingly hot, a testament to how much he must be hurting. I wet two washcloths and drape them over his exposed knees to warm them, careful not to bump the cruel red tooth-marks that I know are still throbbing and sore, no matter how much he pretends otherwise. He relaxes back into my embrace, laying his head on my chest. Mmm... Those knobby knees... And those thighs and calves that go on forever, and those long, thin feet with the long, thin toes... 

I love him, my beautiful, perfect Cecil.

"Ugly, broken Cecil," he mumbles, almost as if he could read my thoughts. 

"No, no, wonderful..." I whisper, kissing the knob of his spine at the base of his neck. He shakes his head. I've never been that good at convincing anyone with my words, so I guess my hands will have to do most of the talking. Luckily, touch is a language Cecil speaks fluently.

First, I rub his shoulders and feel him melt into my touch. I kiss him again, at the edge of his hairline. He turns his head and I take his earlobe into my mouth and suck briefly, then press my lips to his ear. 

"Wonderful," I repeat. 

My hands leave his shoulders and slide across his prominent shoulder blades, then smooth down his ribcage and rest a moment on his waist. 

"Amazing," I tell him, wandering downward to cup the points of his pelvis in my palms. His breathing is coming faster now, and as I bring my right hand toward his center, I can see that the petting and the praise are having a predictable effect.

Okay, let me be blunt. I **love** Cecil's cock. Love it. Love. It. I love touching it, love sucking it, love having it inside of me just as much as I love being inside of him. It's beautiful. It's not too big and not too small, and it blushes the most attractive rosy pink when he's turned on, as he is now. Of course, I can't talk. I've been jabbing him in the small of the back with my erection since we got into the tub. 

I start to stroke him firmly, and he breathes in a shaking breath and arches his back. The movement puts pressure and friction against my aching dick, but not nearly enough. I grab his hips and maneuver him and myself so that I can thrust between his gorgeous, firm little ass cheeks. I force myself to go slowly, both for myself and for him, but it's a struggle. I want to pound into him and make him scream my name, but I know his body isn't exactly up for that kind of action just yet, even if his dick might disagree.

He's trembling now, and his hips press back into me with each stroke. Oh, oh, it feels amazing. He's so warm and so close and the water is making his skin slick and slippery and I can feel him pulse in my fist. He's coming apart, one piece at time. I am too.

Mmmmm, have I mentioned how much I love his ass? Oh, god, it's wonderful. Oh, god, oh... Fuck. I want him so bad, I want to fuck him so fucking hard, just bury myself completely in him, but, oh, this is good, this is very fucking good, too. Oh, fuck, fuck, oh... I can't help myself, my hand, my hips are moving faster now, the water is sloshing out onto the floor, Cecil's hands are clawing at the sides of the tub, his voice is echoing off the cold tile, oh, oh fuck. Oh, fuck, oh...

_Oh, Cecil._

His muscles tense against me and his cock twitches violently. My vision is filled with a burst of stars as I come against his smooth, hot skin, and there is nothing in the world I want more than this moment.

And then it gets better. He sighs and lays back against me, and it feels like he's made out of gelatin. I'm glad that I'm here to hold him up, because otherwise I think he'd probably slip right under the water and drown. Of course, if it weren't for me, he probably wouldn't be feeling quite so boneless right now. Go me.

The water is starting to cool off, now, and it occurs to me that we're soaking in our own body fluids. Maybe it's time to call it a night.

"Hey, Ceese?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's get out, hey? I think we're actually getting dirtier the longer we stay in this tub."

He snickers. "Who knows? It could be a new beauty treatment."

"Yeah, well, you don't need to get any more beautiful."

"Let's agree to disagree on that."

I get out of the tub first, then I offer a hand to Cecil. He leans on me heavily, wincing as he steps down to the floor. His knees buckle, and I catch him before he can stumble. He mutters his thanks and accepts a fluffy towel from me. He's quiet now, avoiding eye contact, and I remember that not all of Cecil's scars are on his body.

"Penny for your thoughts."

He shakes his head. "They're not worth that much."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"I was thinking..." He stops and picks at a loop of fuzz on the towel. "I was thinking about how very selfish I am."

"Selfish? You? Everyone's a little selfish. You're no more so than anyone else."

He looks at me now, angry tears in his eyes. "Yes, I am! I'm incredibly selfish. I'm selfish because I don't want you to leave!"

Okay, now I'm confused. "Well, geez, I guess that works out, 'cause I don't want to leave."

"Yeah, but you should. Being close to me seems to be dangerous lately." He glances down at the cat, who is lightly snoring on the towel.

"Cecil..." I draw him close to me, but I might as well be hugging a piece of furniture. His eyes travel down my face to my chest, and his hands trace over _my_ scars, the ones I got while being a cocky asshole more intent on showing up Teddy Williams and being some sort of sciency action hero than being cautious. He softens a little.

"Carlos, you should leave town, you really should. It's not safe for you to love me."

"Then I won't be safe anywhere, because no matter where I go, I'm gonna love you. I think I'm better off here, where you can protect me."

He chews on his lower lip. "I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"Nothing's going to happen to me. But if it does, you have my permission to exact a great and terrible revenge on the parties responsible."

"Promise?"

I'm not sure whether I'm promising to be okay or promising Cecil that he can tear a piece off of anyone who would hurt me, but I nod anyway, and he seems satisfied and finally allows me to hold him. We stay like that for a moment, then I reluctantly pull away. 

"So, bedtime?"

"Sounds good." Cecil bends and picks Khoshekh up and hugs him to his chest, and it occurs to me that the true definition of trust (or suicidal foolishness) is clutching a beast like that against your naked body, but Cecil is completely unfazed. He pads out of the room, and I follow him as we wind through the crummy kitchen and the cluttered living room to the bedroom. He sets the cat down on the mattress, gently, and then he and I burrow down into the stifling mound of textiles he's recently created for himself. It's not particularly comfortable, but it comforts him, and he's more in need of comforting than I am at the moment, so I go along with it. 

I hold his body close to mine and stroke his hair, and in a few moments he's asleep. I feel myself drifting off, too. It's another late night. We'll likely sleep well past dawn, safe in our cocoon from the relentless glare of the sun, safe for now in the chrysalis we've made from our love.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked this fic? Come howl at the void with me at punkrockgaia.tumblr.com.


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